Half an hour before Pixie Lott is even due to arrive, a photography studio in West London is becoming increasingly crowded. The plan is for Lott to model some of the spring/summer collection she has designed in collaboration with teen fashion retailer Lipsy. As such, the presence of a photographer, a photographer’s assistant and a stylist doesn’t need a massive amount of explanation. And a make-up artist is to be expected. And the pretty boy who ferries in bottles of spring water and pots of tea is only doing his job. Then there’s a pair of nice, jolly PR women, who, a short while later, are joined by more jolly PR women, who announce to everyone that Pixie is on her way. That’s more than ten people already. Then it turns out that Pixie is running late.

Someone is dispatched to locate a few bottles of cava (“not champagne, not prosecco – cava”), which, it is reasoned, would be nice for everyone, not least Pixie’s mum, Beverly, who is known to favour the Spanish sparkling wine and who has been accompanying her daughter all day. And when Lott eventually does arrive – tiny, breezy, blindingly blonde – it’s the matriarchal figure of Beverly who scopes the room, while her 19-year-old daughter chats with the make-up artist.

She explains how she has set up something on her computer back home in Brentwood, Essex, so that anything written about Pixie is e-mailed directly to her. Does she read everything? “Everything,” she nods.
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